


ganz besonders / completely peculiar

by neednot



Series: ganz besonders [1]
Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier & Related Fandoms, Rebecca - Levay/Kunze
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Emotionally Repressed, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Pining, Smut, at least some humiliation, it's smut with an actual plot and some tension, it's what I get for being a coward!, let the record show I captained this ship and was just super damn late posting my fic welp, mistress/servant, so much pining, very very light bdsm?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neednot/pseuds/neednot
Summary: "I had no romantic feelings towards her, and I was certain she felt the same.But we were both so horrendously, wretchedly lonely."The new Mrs. de Winter finds herself still living in Rebecca's shadow, and with the realization that her husband offers no comfort, turns to someone else instead.
Relationships: Maxim de Winter/Narrator (Rebecca), Mrs. Danvers/Ich, Mrs. Danvers/Narrator, Narrator (Rebecca)/Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca)
Series: ganz besonders [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899748
Comments: 27
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated, of course, I do so love this ship

“Mrs. de Winter.”

The voice stopped me cold. I looked up from where I was sitting, grateful for the bulk of the secretary desk distancing me from her.

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers?” I asked.

She crossed the room to me and I pressed my hands into my lap, willing them to stop shaking.

“I noticed,” she said, her voice quiet, “some things in the west wing were disturbed; if you want to be there you have only to ask.”

My face heated.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just... I wanted...”

I couldn’t even get the sentence out of my mouth, and I watched barely-concealed disgust twist her face.

I pushed back from the desk and stood, wanting to be away from her, away from here, but she was in between me and the door.

“You tried on her things, then?” she asked, and her voice was again animated, her eyes bright and feverish. “Did you try the underclothes with the lace edging, the pale pink pair she never wore? Or the black satin pair, she always did love those.”

She stared past me, seeing but not seeing. She stepped towards me and I flinched away, hating myself for it.

“Did you?” she asked, her voice a low whisper. “Did you take her things, _my_ Rebecca’s things?”

“I... I’m sorry,” I said, “I only wanted to see what would fit, if I could—”

“No, you couldn't,” she said, and seized my elbow and pulled me to her, her mouth by my ear. “You are not and you never will be Mrs. de Winter.”

I shook. I knew she was right, but I was so tired of hearing it.

“But I am,” I said, hardly daring to believe the words had come out of my mouth. “I am Mrs. de Winter now.”

* * *

I turned on my heel and fled, wanting to be far away from Mrs. Danvers, from the shame of the whole affair, feeling very much like a child who’d been caught and punished. I really had only tried on a few clothes, a few skirts, and while I’d glanced at the lace things in Rebecca’s drawer I had only run my hands over them.

I remembered then, Mrs. Danvers’ rapturous face as she showed me Rebecca’s nightgown, the queer smile, the gentle way she’d run her hands under the fabric. The way she talked about her, the way she’d called her _my_ Rebecca.

But surely not…

An image came to me then, of Mrs. Danvers brushing Rebecca’s hair, of the gentle way she would have pulled it back from her neck, the way her fingers would have grazed Rebecca’s skin, and how then she would have bent down, and…

But surely not.

I could not get those images out of my head. Of Rebecca’s clothes, of the way she must have looked in them, so much finer than I ever would.

Of the way Mrs. Danvers had called her _my_ Rebecca.

Why was I thinking of that again?

I knew Mrs. Danvers had known Rebecca a long time, even before Rebecca had come to Manderley. Surely that was what she had meant. And I certainly wasn't going to ask Max about it; the mention of Rebecca was enough to send him into a foul temper. But an insinuation like that, about her and his housekeeper?

No.

But there was one other person who had known Rebecca as long as Mrs. Danvers had, one whose company I loathed but who might be useful to me.

After all, curiosity about the woman who had come before me was only natural, wasn’t it?

“I’m surprised you invited me back.”

Jack sat across from me in the morning room, stirring a cup of tea, and I willed myself not to wince every time his spoon clattered against the porcelain of the cup. Robert and Frith were out, and Clarice had been sworn to secrecy when she’d brought our tea tray in. I didn’t know where Mrs. Danvers was.

I shrugged. “I’m surprised you accepted.”

“Come now, I wouldn’t miss this.” He grinned. “Getting to know Maxim’s new bride? Tell me, how does it feel being Mrs. de Winter?”

“Well enough,” I said, and Jack gave me that grin again. There was something in him I instantly disliked, something shifty. But nevertheless I found myself looking at him, looking for traces of Rebecca in his features, though I had no idea what she’d looked like, either.

Was this what Mrs. Danvers did, when she saw him? Did he have the same eyes as Rebecca, or the same nose? Did she look at his features long enough until they began to morph into hers?

As if he knew what I was thinking, Jack continued, “Where is old Danny then? I haven’t seen her around.”

“I suppose she is here—somewhere,” I said, and he barked a laugh at that.

“She’s always lurking; she was always like that too, when Rebecca was alive. Never far from her.”

“Was she?” I asked. I had my opening and made to seize it. Jack’s face twisted, just a little.

“Yes, even when we were young. Danny’d been with Rebecca longer than anyone—our family hired her early on as a governess for Rebecca after her mother died, and she’s been with us ever since.”

“She seems… devoted to her,” I said, picking my words carefully.

“Devoted? The woman’s obsessed,” Jack said. “Always has been. It was always sad to me, pathetic, the way she trailed behind me and Rebecca.”

“So you and Rebecca were close.” I felt like a journalist, chasing some lead I couldn’t quite define, careful to not spook my source too much.

“Rebecca and I were… closer than blood,” Jack said, and the way he looked at me then made me cold, no doubt in my mind what he was implying.

“And she and Mrs. Danvers?” I asked. I held my breath, leaning forward in my chair, waiting for his answer.

“Oh, Danny always loved Rebecca,” he said. He smiled that queer smile, the same one I’d seen on her face before. “But she could never love her like I could.”

I felt, suddenly, a strange protectiveness for Mrs. Danvers—just briefly, just for a fleeting moment. She frightened me but Jack disgusted me, and between the two of them, she was the lesser evil.

“Well,” Jack said, pushing out of his chair. “This has been an enlightening afternoon.”

I stood and made to follow him to the door. Mrs. Danvers appeared then, almost as I had hoped she would. “Favell,” she said, and her voice was cold, it was not the dead, lifeless tone it usually was. “Mrs. de Winter didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“We didn’t want to make more trouble for you, Danny,” he said, and his gaze flitted back to me. “I was just telling the new Mrs. de Winter she has quite a role to fill.” He stopped, looked between us. “You were, after all, _devoted_ to Rebecca. I wonder if you’ll be the same with Max’s new wife?”

I could feel my face coloring as Jack laughed, and my gaze switched to Mrs. Danvers, who was looking at Jack with something very close to hatred, the fabric of her dress bunched in her left hand.

“Adieu, Danny,” he said, and left the hallway without so much as a backward glance.

“Mrs. Danvers—” I started, but she turned her back to me.

“Should you need anything for dinner, Madam, you have only to ring me on the house telephone,” she called, and hurried away before I could say anything else.

* * *

I did not see Mrs. Danvers again until a few days after the costume ball, having done my best to avoid her. I had tried to put her out of my mind, her and that conversation with Jack, but it had done no good, the thoughts burrowing their way into my head until it seemed I would never get them out.

Maxim was out again, and I found myself wandering like I had that first week to the west wing, just for some privacy, some time to myself away from the servants.

It was not, I told myself, because of Rebecca. It was not because of those thoughts I’d been having.

It was not, it was not, it was not.

But still Mrs. Danvers’ voice came back to me, that time she had caught me in Rebecca’s clothing, _the black satin pair, she always did love those._

_My_ Rebecca.

Before I knew it I found myself back in her room, before I could give any real thought to what I was doing I had wandered over to that drawer where her underclothes were kept, where I had run my hands over the soft fabrics just barely a week before.

I picked up one of the pieces, this one in a pale peach, and imagined myself as the sort of woman who wore those things, the sort of Mrs. de Winter I was playing at being.

_You are not and you never will be Mrs. de Winter._

_But I am Mrs. de Winter now._

The woman who had uttered those words was someone who wouldn’t care what Mrs. Danvers thought, she was someone who would see Rebecca’s fine clothing and think it was going to waste, and try it on.

I pulled my dress over my head and shucked off my own plain underclothes, which looked almost girlish next to Rebecca’s. She had been taller than I was, slightly curvier, but not enough to where the size in these garments would have made much difference.

I walked over to the vanity, to the mirror, and caught a glimpse of myself in it. I did not look like the timid girl who had met Maxim in Monte Carlo. There was color in my cheeks, and I looked almost—pretty.

Is this what Rebecca felt, this pride? Is this what it meant to be the lady of the house, to always feel this way? And why, again, was I thinking of Mrs. Danvers helping her dress?

I could almost imagine the scenario again, and nearly sat myself down at the vanity when I caught movement in the mirror, and I turned.

There stood Mrs. Danvers in the doorway to the room. I reached for something to cover myself, but thought—

Is that what Rebecca would do? And hadn’t I expected this? I’d come to the part of the house only she and I ever went to, hadn’t I expected her to show up, summoned by the ghost of Rebecca?

Mrs. Danvers’ hands twitched by her sides, one subconsciously playing with the fabric between her fingers. For a second I thought she would begin to yell at me, though even then I could not see her losing her decorum in such a way.

“I’m sorry,” I began, but Mrs. Danvers held up a hand. Embarrassment colored my face again because all I could think of now was Rebecca, and how Rebecca wouldn’t have been embarrassed to be seen in such things, how she would probably have paraded around, showing her body off, throwing a coy smile and a wink over her shoulder, “How do I look, Danny?”

“They fit,” Mrs. Danvers said, and to my complete surprise she crossed the room to me, her hands suddenly on my shoulders, pulling them back, straightening them. I was surprised at how cool her hands were, how almost pleasant the sensation was, and I shivered.

“You cannot wear these of course,” she said, some of the familiar haughtiness returning to her voice. “But... should you desire similar pieces, I would have them ordered for you.”

I turned to face her, struck by how close she was to me, her face mere inches away. Up close too I was hit with the notion that she was younger than I had realized, grief and hard work making her seem older than she was.

“Why should I trust you?” I asked. “After what you did. For all I know this is some—some scheme of yours, to get me to parade in front of Max and remind him of Rebecca again.”

To my utter surprise, she laughed.

“You think Mrs. de Winter wore these things for him?” she asked, and there was a hint of disdain in her voice at the mention of my husband. “Mr. de Winter is many things, Madam, but observant is not one of them. Such finery would have been wasted on him,” she sneered.

“Then...”

“Her other lovers,” Mrs. Danvers said, and I saw something dark flash in her eyes. “Those she took down to the boathouse.”

“And you,” I said, just to test, to see, and the expression that briefly crossed her face before she was able to mask it told me the truth. “Because you would have helped dress her,” I added.

“I... of course,” she said stiffly, and her hands dropped to her sides then, her expression once again the distant, closed-off one I was used to.

I was surprised then at how much I wanted to hear more. But surely it was because I just wanted my suspicions confirmed, surely it was just because I wanted to know more about my predecessor.

“Did she wear these for Favell?”

It was a grotesque question, one I could not believe had left my mouth. The change in Mrs. Danvers was instantaneous. Gone was the distant expression, replaced with that one so close to the hatred I had seen on her the day Favell had come around.

“No,” she said with certainty. “Much like Mr. de Winter, Mr. Favell does not care about the sort of finery that’s on a woman so long as it is easy for him to take off.”

“But he and Rebecca…”

She stared at me, then, that fire burning in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “They did have a relationship; I suppose he told you as much when he came to visit.”

“He did,” I said, and my heart pounded because here it was, here was the moment where I was going to acknowledge it, where I was going to get the answers I wanted. “He… he also seemed to suggest that you…”

Wherever that sentence had been going died on my tongue. Mrs. Danvers turned sharply on her heel, away from me, her arms crossed over her body, folded into herself instead of her usual impeccable posture. When she finally spoke, her voice was once more lifeless.

“Mrs. de Winter and I were very close, but the sort of… closeness that Mr. Favell is implying was not how she felt for me.”

“And you for her?”

It was out there now, the question that had been turning over in my mind since that day she’d caught me in Rebecca’s clothes.

_My Rebecca._

She did not answer me; she did not need to. It was there in the way she spoke about Rebecca, the anger and fear she’d shown me when she’d caught me in the west wing that first time. She had loved her, had been in love with her. Had taken every ounce of closeness she could get, because that was all Rebecca would give her.

_Danny could never love Rebecca like I could._

“Mrs. Danvers…”

I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I reached out and placed my hand on her shoulder, smoothed my thumb over the blade of it. My touch seemed to spur something in her because she quickly straightened and turned back to look at me.

“I’ll let you change, Madam,” she said. “Please call if you would like me to order such items for you. Or if you should need anything else.”

Her face was closed again; this was not what I wanted. I wanted her yelling, or angry at me for touching Rebecca’s things, not this defeated passiveness.

“Mrs. Danvers.”

Her eyes met mine then, and there was a flicker of life in them. She was still close to me; I had closed the distance between us when I had stepped to her while her back was turned.

She had loved Rebecca and Rebecca had not loved her; she lived in this house with the memories of a woman no one would acknowledge—except, it seemed, for me.

And I did not know what possessed me to do it—later when I would look back on it I would tell myself I had only been trying for some sort of comfort, but even then I knew that was false. I leaned in and very lightly tilted my face up, closed my eyes and brushed my lips across hers; it could barely be called a kiss, but that was what it was.

I do not know what I expected, but her reaction wasn’t it. She wrenched away from me as if I’d slapped her, nearly causing me to lose my balance in the process. Her expression was one of shock, and something deeper underneath I couldn’t quite decipher.

Before I could say anything, however, she turned on her heel and fled from me, her footsteps rapid, almost ungainly.

I looked after her, then turned to gather my things, catching a brief, fleeting glance of myself in the mirror before realizing—

I was still wearing Rebecca’s clothes.

This time it was Mrs. Danvers who was avoiding me, I was sure of it. We only spoke when I called her to give her the day’s menu, otherwise, she made herself scarce. For my part I avoided her as well, taking to strolling on the beach with Jasper to fill hours I would have been in the house.

Beatrice and Giles dropped by at some point, just to check on me after the costume ball. Normally I would have been grateful for their presence, but Beatrice being around just made Maxim all the more irritated, and I found her questions almost intrusive this time rather than comforting as they had been before.

“How are you getting on with the staff, then?” Beatrice asked as she stood in the hall to leave, her coat tucked over her arm. “I hope Mrs. Danvers isn’t giving you any trouble.”

“Why would she?” I asked, the question leaving my mouth too quickly, so Beatrice ended up looking at me with that queer look on her face.

“I just meant with her devotion to Rebecca,” she said carefully. “I hope she isn’t making you feel like you’re taking her place.” She smiled at me and pulled me in for a hug. “You really are so very different from her, you know.”

I knew. It seemed a fact I would be reminded of until the day I died—how very different I was from Rebecca.

“Everything’s been fine, Bee,” I said, and that answer seemed to satisfy her, for she and Giles left soon after without so much as a glance back.

Maxim and I ate dinner alone that night, only interrupted every so often by Frith bringing in the next course.

I found myself staring at him in anticipation. He had hardly embraced me since we’d returned from our honeymoon some months before, had barely kissed me.

I’d had Clarice send off for the items I wanted; not daring to ask Mrs. Danvers to do it after what had happened in the west wing. They had arrived today, Clarice had rung me up on the house phone to tell me very excitedly that a fine package from London was waiting on my bed. I hadn’t had the chance to go up and change into any of them with Beatrice and Giles’ arrival.

But maybe tonight was the night I would, for I wanted Maxim to look at me the way he had back in Monte Carlo, full of devotion, like a man who could not believe his good fortune.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked, and I was pulled out of my reverie.

“Hm?”

“You’ve got this funny little smile on your face, like you’re up to something,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” I said, and to my surprise, his face darkened. Without a word he pushed back from the table. I pushed back too, hurrying after him.

"Maxim--Maxim, wait!”

He turned on his heel then, staring down at me with such intensity it made me want to shrink back from him.

“Maxim…”

He seemed to come back into himself then, because he pulled back, it was only then I realized how close we had been standing, how he had been towering over me.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was hollow. “The last time you said you were up to something ended in that disastrous stunt at the costume ball.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice small. “I… I promise, Maxim, it’s nothing like that.”

He pulled me to him then, holding my body against his, and I turned my head to rest my cheek against his chest.

There was movement from the far end of the hallway that Maxim did not seem to notice but I did, movement very much like a long black skirt as it rounded a corner, and the clip of heels the owner was trying hard to keep silent.

* * *

The package was on my bed as Clarice had said, a cream-colored thing that had clearly cost money. I took a letter opener I had stolen from the morning room and very carefully undid the seams of the box, taking my time with it.

I’d only had Clarice order two pairs of underclothes; one in forest green satin and the other in midnight blue lace, colors I knew were not among the ones Rebecca had kept. I had wanted these to be mine.

There was a knock on the door and my stomach seized. Clarice, I assumed, coming in to ask if I needed help dressing for the night.

But when the door swung open it was not Clarice, but Mrs. Danvers.

I was not as surprised as I should have been to see her in my doorway.

She stepped in quietly and shut the door behind her. She had not met me in my room since the day she showed it to me; her presence here now was strange.

“Where's Clarice?” I asked, for it was always Clarice who had helped me undress in the evenings.

“She was ill, I sent her home.”

“She wasn’t ill when I saw her earlier,” I said, and Mrs. Danvers raised an eyebrow at me.

“Are you implying I deliberately made Clarice ill so as to be the one to take over for her tonight?” she challenged.

That was exactly what I was implying, but hearing the words out of her mouth just made me feel foolish.

“No,” I murmured. “Of course not, Mrs. Danvers.”

She said nothing else but I saw her gaze drawn to the box on the bed, the things I had ordered clearly visible.

“You did order them,” she said, and there was a hint of surprise in her voice. “You had Clarice do it; why did you not ask me? You knew I'd offered.”

“I...”

I did not have a good answer, and she knew it. Without a word she strode over to the bed and picked up the clothes I had ordered out of their box, holding them up against my frame.

“You chose well,” she said, and I couldn't make out the note in her voice besides shock, but it sounded like she was almost impressed.

“Thank you,” I said. “I was hoping to wear them for Maxim tonight.”

Her head snapped up and her gaze met mine, that challenging look I was used to by now. “Were you?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, and she scoffed, dropping my clothing unceremoniously back onto the bed.

“Come now, Mrs. de Winter,” she said, her gaze not leaving mine. “You mean to tell me you ordered this finery for a man I explicitly told you would not appreciate it? A man who has barely touched you since your honeymoon, save for whatever that embrace in the hallway was tonight?”

So she had seen. It had been her lurking there. What was the use in denying it, then?

“No,” I said, my voice quiet. “I didn't buy them for Mr. de Winter.”

“Hmm.” She drew closer to me, picked up another piece of clothing, running the fabric between her fingers.

“If you didn't buy these for Mr. de Winter,” she said softly, “then who did you buy them for?”

Her gaze met mine, and I swallowed. There was that same queer look in her eye there had been before, but I realized now that I recognized it.

It was desire.

“I...” I began, but the words died on my lips as she kissed me.

And I, I who had not been touched by anyone since my honeymoon with Maxim several months prior, who had been shown barely any affection by him since our lives together began, let alone any sort of physical affection—

I kissed her back.

This time I was the one to pull away first. I pulled back from her and pressed my hand to my mouth as if I could not believe what I had just done—for I couldn’t. I had kissed another woman, a member of my staff, a woman who up until even a week ago I had thought I loathed.

For her part she just continued staring at me with that intense look on her face. “If you want me to leave, Madam, then I shall,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You... you came here to help me dress, didn’t you? Because Clarice isn’t here?” I pulled out the midnight blue underclothes. “Then help me.”

“I should hardly think you’d need help putting these things on, Madam,” she said. I blushed, furious at myself. I was being obvious, I was like a schoolgirl with a crush.

What was I even doing? Maxim was just two rooms down. I was married. This woman was my _housekeeper._

But Maxim had never looked at me the way she was looking at me now.

“No,” I said. “I... I suppose you’re right.” My eyes met hers.

“If you don’t need my help...”

She did not turn towards the door, though. Did not move to leave. Her hands were firmly clasped in front of her, as if awaiting an order, and I realized I had given her the one thing Rebecca had not, had found the one place she could never compare me to her.

And Maxim had never kissed me so gently.

“I’m giving you a choice,” I said, my voice clear with an authority I did not fully feel. She looked at me in surprise, but I quickly averted my eyes from her, because if I continued to look at her I would lose my nerve.

“And what choice is that, Madam?”

“You can help me get dressed, and I will go to Maxim’s room and you and I will never speak of this again.” My voice shook.

“And the other choice?”

She was closer to me now, her hands now fluttering nervously by her sides. I steeled myself.

“You understand that I am not Rebecca...” her brow furrowed, “and you stay with me tonight.”

Her hands stilled, realization dawning on her face at what I was offering her, offering us both. An out, if she took it.

And if she didn’t...

I had no romantic feelings towards her, and I was certain she felt the same.

But we were both so horrendously, wretchedly lonely.

“I understand,” she said. She closed her eyes briefly, drew in a breath. “If you will step behind the screen and change, Madam, I will lay out a suitable night outfit.”

My heart sank. But I was the one who had given her the choice, after all.

“Of course, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and without another word she passed me the folded navy underclothes. I stepped behind the folding screen and shucked off the other layers of my clothing before pulling my new pieces on, glancing at myself in the mirror. The navy was a good color; it brought out my eyes, made my hair look not quite so dull.

Maxim would not appreciate it at all.

I tried to keep my disappointment in check, because it would have meant acknowledging that I was disappointed. That I wanted intimacy, and not with Maxim.

I stepped out from behind the screen. She had laid my nightgown out on my bed, one of my favorites that I had purchased in Italy.

And she was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the nightgown on, surprised to find my hands shaking, and opened the door of my bedroom. The hallway was empty; there was no sign of Mrs. Danvers. I wiped my hands on my dress and crossed the hall to Maxim’s door, knocking on it quietly.

He opened the door to let me in, but as he did, I heard footsteps retreating down the hallway, from the direction I had come. The direction of my room.

She’d come back.

And as Maxim pulled me into his arms, I knew—

I’d chosen wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Again I did not speak to her; again we did danced around one another, never alone together in the same room.

One night after dinner when Maxim and I were in the library she came in. I did not hear what question she asked; I looked down at my hands the entire time she spoke, only glancing up after she’d left. Maxim looked at me curiously.

“Did Mrs. Danvers say something to you again? Honestly, you’re like a frightened child whenever she comes around.” He laughed. “She’s not some old schoolmarm, she can’t hurt you.”

I forced myself to laugh. “It’s foolish, I know. I shouldn’t be scared of her.”

Maxim shook his head. “I would get rid of her if I could, but I’ve never had a more efficient housekeeper.” He smoothed his thumb over my hand. Since that night I had come to his room he had been slightly more affectionate, but it was still not what I needed; what I craved. Even that night he had barely paid any attention to me, to what I wore—

Exactly like she’d said he would.

The room he and I were in suddenly felt too small, too stifling, and I pushed up from the chair.

“I’m going to retire early,” I said, and hurried from the library before Maxim could say anything else.

I wanted to go to the west wing but I did not dare. Instead I hurried up the steps towards my room, half wishing she would be there like she had been the other night, half wishing she wouldn’t, because I knew what I would choose if she was.

But it was only Clarice in my chambers, smiling at me as she folded down my bed, a different nightgown already laid out on it.

“Did Mr. de Winter like the things you ordered?” she asked in a soft, scandalized voice as she brushed my hair. I found myself wishing her hands were someone else’s.

“He did,” I said, and smiled. “Thank you for helping me with that Clarice.”

“Of course, Madam,” she giggled. “I’m so glad you asked, can you imagine the look on Mrs. Danvers’ face if you’d asked her?”

I could. I did. I had.

_“If you didn't buy these for Mr. de Winter,” she said softly, “then who did you buy them for?”_

“I’m sure she would have been none too happy about it, Clarice,” I said, and she dissolved into giggles again.

I turned off the lights after Clarice left, curling up in a bed that felt far too big for just me.

I would confront Mrs. Danvers in the morning, I decided. If only to tell myself I had.

* * *

Morning dawned; Maxim and I had a quiet breakfast in the garden. He had said he would be going up to London later and I was impatient for him to leave, fidgeting with everything on my plate until I got up and went to the morning room. I sat down and thought about writing a letter, but I had no one to write to, and nothing to write about.

What would I say, even? _Dear Beatrice, I do love your brother terribly but I also kissed our housekeeper and I don’t know what that means._

Just the thought made me cover my mouth with silent laughter, which stopped abruptly when Maxim came in.

“I shan’t be going to London today; the weather is dreadful for driving,” he said. I glanced out the window, the skies were gray, but clear.

“Is it?”

“It’s supposed to rain later,” he said.

A thought struck me then, and I nearly smiled with the ingeniousness of it, but managed to control my expressions. “I was planning on going for a walk down by the cottage, darling,” I said. “Would you join me?”

I knew he wouldn’t, I saw his expression change as soon as I mentioned it.

“No,” he said. “I’ll stay here.”

“That’s a pity,” I said. I reached for the house telephone. “I’ll tell Mrs. Danvers then to only prepare lunch for you; I think I shall pack a picnic and take it down with me. It does seem to be nice out right now.”

Maxim nodded, his expression stiff. I knew he didn’t like any mention of the boathouse, he’d made that incredibly clear the first time—and truth told I was still sore at him for how he’d treated me then.

“Of course,” he said, and turned and walked out of the morning room. I immediately picked up the house telephone, dialed the line that went directly to Mrs. Danvers’ room.

“No need to prepare lunch for me today, I’m taking a picnic down by the cottage,” I said. There was silence on the other end of the line and for a second I worried she hadn’t heard me.

“As you wish, Madam,” she said, and then there was the click as she hung up the receiver. My own hands shook as I did the same.

I had laid the bait. Whether or not she took it remained to be seen.

But oh, how I hoped she did.

I dressed carefully for my walk down to the cottage, dismissing Clarice when she offered, for this was something I wanted to do alone. I’d chosen an outfit easy for walking, still plain, still very much myself, but underneath I wore the midnight blue underclothes; the ones Maxim had barely glanced at that night I had gone to him. On my arm was a picnic basket, a bottle of wine and some fruits, bread, and cheese from the pantry inside.

Ben was nowhere around either and for that I was also grateful. The weather was warm and I opened the door to the boathouse, propping it open with the picnic basket so as to clear out the musty smell of the room.

I could make this my own nest, I decided; it didn’t have to have anything to do with Rebecca anymore. But even as I told myself that I felt her presence down there, how she had deliberately chosen every piece of furniture, every item adorning the shelves.

I couldn’t help think, then, of what Mrs. Danvers had said—that Rebecca had taken her other lovers down here.

And if I admitted it to myself, wasn’t that what I was about to do? I had tried so hard to stay out of her shadow and yet here I was, deliberately stepping into it.

I shook my head. No. I had called Mrs. Danvers down here to talk, and wherever that led—

I was not Rebecca.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the picnic basket by my feet, my shoes now propping open the door. There had thankfully been a corkscrew in one of the drawers, and a dusty teacup I had done my best to clean before pouring some of the wine in it. After what felt like half an hour I closed the door to the boathouse, for the wind was coming in and I was starting to get cold.

Where was she?

Perhaps she would not take my invitation then, perhaps I had made the right choice going to Maxim that night.

But she had been walking away from my door as I’d entered his room; I knew she had. She had come back, and I had been the one we were both disappointed in.

I took another sip of the wine, and I waited. It felt like another half-hour had passed and my stomach sank in disappointment as the sky outside darkened; she was not coming, and now I was going to have to hurry back to the house in the rain and look the fool.

But then there was a soft tap on the cottage door, and I pushed off the bed and hurried to open it, realizing as I did so that I was ever so slightly tipsy.

Mrs. Danvers stood there and for a moment I could not believe it was her, could not believe she was standing in front of me. Some of her hair had blown loose on the walk down, and her face was flushed.

“Are you going to let me in? It’s beginning to rain,” she said.

“Oh!” I stepped back, allowing her to pass me as I shut the door behind me. I watched intently as she took her coat off and gently folded it over a chair, watching as she took in the space, Rebecca’s space.

“I haven’t been down here in ages,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Rebecca always told me she didn’t even want me to clean in here, that she wanted somewhere that was just hers.” She shook her head. “Or maybe she just wanted to make it abundantly clear that the space she took her lovers was not a space I would ever be permitted to enter.” She laughed, quiet and bitter. “And now here you are inviting me to it.”

I swallowed but didn’t dare step any closer to her. She picked up a shell that had been drying in the window, then set it back down.

“You know, I have watched you take over everything in that house that belonged to her and I have hated it. But this—” She turned to look at me. “I don’t think I will mind if you make this place your own, if you get rid of her memory here.”

Her eyes met mine, and my breath caught in my throat.

“Why did you invite me down here?” she asked. “And for once I don’t want you stammering out an answer, I don’t want you to dance around it. I want the truth.”

“I…” I swallowed again, emboldened by the wine. “Because I made the wrong choice, the other night. Because I should have chosen you over Maxim.” I wiped my hands on my dress and looked down, not daring to look at her. “Because you kissed me and I would like you to do it again.”

I stole a glance at her. To my surprise, she was smirking.

“Is that all you want me to do?” she said. “Kiss you? Come now, Mrs. de Winter, you could have found me down some deserted corridor for that.”

Her hands by her sides were still, they were not the trembling, fluttering things she normally were. I stepped up to her; again aware of how much taller she was than me, looking up into her face.

“No,” I said. “No, that’s not all I want.”

To my surprise, she stepped forward, into my space, until I had backed up against the bed, knees buckling so I was sitting on the edge of it.

“Then what is it?” she asked quietly, both a challenge and question in one. “You surely must have some idea of what you want from me.”

My mouth was dry. I did not know what to do; I tried to think of what Rebecca would have done.

But Rebecca would not have done this, Mrs. Danvers had said that herself.

I leaned up towards her, my head tilted towards hers, and her hands that had been so still by her sides suddenly came to life as she pushed me back down on the bed and kissed me. Her mouth was soft against mine and I knew she could still taste the wine on my breath. When she pulled back, I was panting.

“Is that what you want?” she asked.

I didn’t respond, just gripped the front of her dress between my fingers and pulled her back down to me, kissing her harder than before. My back arched up toward her and her hands found my hips, pulling my body up to meet hers.

I had not felt such urgency with Maxim. I wanted her hands on me in other places, I wanted to be touched in a way I hadn’t even with my husband.

She pushed my skirt up, her hands on my thighs, and she paused, looking down at me, her chest heaving. And I knew then what this was for her, the opportunity she had never gotten with Rebecca that she had wanted so desperately.

We were both just using each other for the affection the people we loved had failed to give us.

I did not love Mrs. Danvers, I wasn’t even sure I liked her. But she was here and so was I, and that was enough.

“What do you want?” she asked me again.

I stilled. I didn't know the answer to that question, not fully, if only because no one had ever asked me before.

“The... the same thing you do,” I said. “I know I am not Rebecca—will never be Rebecca.” I reached up to cup her face in my hands, but she grabbed my wrists.

“You think I don’t know that?” she hissed. Her grip was tight and she pulled me closer to her. “Do you think, Mrs. de Winter, that I am not excruciatingly aware that _you_ are not Rebecca?” She laughed.

Her hold on my wrists slackened but I didn’t dare move them away. She looked down at my hands then, scoffed. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she asked.

“I… no,” I admitted. The two times I had been with Maxim had been for his own pleasure, which I understood. What I wanted didn’t really matter.

She nodded. Without breaking eye contact she pushed me further back on the bed, her hands still encircling my wrists, raising my arms so they were pinned above my head. I swallowed.

“Do you know what I think, Mrs. de Winter?” She asked. “I think you don’t know what you want.” She ran one of her hands almost lazily over my chest, my breath quickening as she did so. “I think you had some idea of inviting me to this boathouse after the other night but I don’t think you gave any thought as to what you’d do with me once you had me.”

As she spoke, her hand moved lower and lower, skimming across my stomach, then back to my thighs. With her other hand she pushed my skirts up, and I saw the change in her expression as she took in the satin underclothes.

“Hmm,” she murmured, and lightly brushed her fingers over the fabric; I shivered beneath her. “He didn’t even look at these, did he?”

“N-no,” I gasped as her hand pressed against me. Her eyes never left mine as she slid her hand down inside the fabric, and I moaned as she touched me.

She bent low over me and kissed me, then my jaw, then my neck, before slipping one of her fingers inside me.

“This is what you wanted,” she murmured, and she was not asking me. “This is what Rebecca’s lovers did with her; she told me so herself.” She quickened her pace.

I did not want her to mention Rebecca, I did not want to be compared to Rebecca, but I didn’t protest. She wanted her control back and I was going to let her take it.

Her lips skimmed over my collarbone, then her teeth, and I moaned. She laughed, a low sound. My breath came in short gasps and I could feel myself getting closer to release, to what I wanted.

And then she slowed, and I whimpered.

“Did you want me to keep going?” she asked. She kissed me, hard, before pulling away. “You’re going to have to tell me.” She stilled, waiting for my response.

“Keep going,” I panted, but she didn’t. “Please—please keep going.”

“Then take your clothes off,” she said, and her tone was the bossy, commanding one I knew, and I was surprised at the rush of pleasure I felt when she used it. I moaned, softly, and the look on her face told me she’d heard me do it.

She shifted so she was no longer on top of me and I sat up, unbuttoning and untucking my blouse before shrugging it off, followed by my skirt, so I was in front of her in just my underclothes. She leaned down and kissed me again, her hand ghosting over my breast. I arched into her as we fell back onto the bed, her hand now back between my legs.

I expected her to start again slowly, tease me like she had, make me tell her again what I wanted—and I was surprised how much I wanted that.

But she didn’t. She thrust into me hard, fast, and I cried out, my hands scrabbling down her back for purchase. I heard a sharp intake of breath as I did so.

She put more of her weight behind her hand, and I moaned again as she pulled me to her, my mouth crushed against her shoulder as I came. I drew in a shaky breath and then pressed my mouth hard to hers, my hands coming up and tangling through her hair. I instinctually tugged it and she broke away from me, gasping. I thought again of Rebecca, the way she would have brushed her hair, and pulled again. She hissed through her teeth, her eyes meeting mine.

But her hand was still inside me, and a wicked smile curled across her face as she thrust into me again. A low moan escaped my lips.

“Keep going,” I said. I tipped my head back, my eyes closed, but she grabbed my chin and turned my face back towards her.

“No,” she said. “I want to see your face.”

I panted, leaned in to kiss her again, but she shook her head and held me in place.

“Don’t move,” she said, and I shivered. She let go of my chin, her hand now trailing down to my breasts, under the fabric of the underclothes I had bought; I whined as she pinched one of my nipples, grinding down harder on her hand.

“Danny—” I gasped, before realizing what I’d called her, the words that had come out of my mouth, and felt the sharp sting of her hand across my cheek.

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed. Her hand was back on my jaw and I knew I was close, my breath quickening. Her dark eyes met mine and wordlessly she raised her hand and slapped me again, and I felt myself coming apart underneath her, her hand now circling to the back of my neck to hold me in place.

Only when my breathing slowed did I realize that I ached in places she'd slapped me; if this was pleasure, it was no less than I deserved; if it was pain it was exquisite. I was aware of her watching my every move, my expression, her hand still on the back of my neck, but her grip loosened.

The smile that spread across her face when my eyes met hers could have been genuine had I not known her better. She extracted her hand from me and wordlessly pressed her fingers against my lips, into my mouth. I moaned around them. I tasted salt, the sea.

God, what was wrong with me, to actually be enjoying this sort of humiliation? Her fingers slid out of my mouth and she examined them before laughing softly to herself and wiping her hand on the bedspread, marking it.

It didn't belong to Rebecca anymore, and we both knew it.

“Mrs. Danvers...” I started, but she held those same fingers up to my mouth and shushed me.

“Don't,” she said. “I don't want to hear it, whatever you're about to say, whatever you're about to make this into.” She leaned back from me and I watched intently as her hands went to her skirts, hiking them up so I could see the line where her stockings ended. She took my hand and placed it on the soft skin of her thigh, then slid it further up to the apex between her legs, over the fabric of her knickers.

“Now,” she said softly, “you’re going to give me what I want.”

“Oh,” I breathed. But I stayed where I was, my hand now at the waistband of her underclothes. She looked at me expectantly.

“It's just—I haven't ever—”

A flicker of something crossed over her face—annoyance maybe, or surprise. She seized my wrist again and pressed me to her, sliding both our hands beneath the fabric of her clothes. Her grip on my wrist slackened slightly as my fingers brushed through hair, then into the wet folds of her. I moaned at the contact. My lips met hers and her teeth scraped across my bottom lip before she broke away.

Her hand that had been gripping my wrist now covered my own hand. I let her unfurl my fingers, let her guide my hand until one of my fingers was inside her, then two. She sank down onto me and I moaned at the contact as she did so.

And then she kissed me again, hard, and her lips were at my ear. “Go on,” she whispered. “Go on, do it.” She withdrew her hand where it has been pinned between us, shifted her hips slightly forward. “Surely you have some idea of what to do here, considering what I just did to you?” She pressed a finger into my mouth again—I was embarrassed at how quickly I opened it for her. She withdrew her finger almost fully before pushing it back into my mouth again, and I moaned, copying her rhythm. She laughed and took her hand back, lightly slapping me.

Something lit inside me, hot and humiliated at how much I was enjoying what she was doing to me. My hand was inside her but she was still, as ever, in control.

And as much as I hated that I enjoyed it, still I wanted to feel some of the power over her that she had over me.

I shifted my weight so I was the one leaning over her, and she gasped. I quickened my pace inside her, watching as she tipped her head back and her eyelids fluttered a moment before she looked at me again, smirking.

Without fully comprehending what I was doing I reached out, the smack of my hand across her cheek startling us both. Her eyes darkened, and she jutted her chin out, daring me to do it again.

I traced my hand along her jaw before slapping her again. She moaned, bearing her weight down onto my hand. I thrust up to meet her and she clutched at my waist, her nails digging into my back. I hissed, but only partly out of pain.

This, I realized, was what I had really wanted. To take back some of that control she so desperately clung to—not just take it back, but fight her for it.

I was not Rebecca, and I wanted her to remember that.

I bent low and kissed her neck, her collarbone, my teeth now scraping across her skin. My free hand snaked through her hair again, my fingers freeing several of the strands from her bun. I knotted the strands around my fingers and pulled.

She swore, her voice low, and I hurried my pace, determined to get her to where she'd gotten me, determined to uncoil whatever decorum had her so tightly wound.

I tugged at her hair again and she moaned, her eyes fluttered shut. She was panting now, and I curled my fingers deeper inside her, aware of nothing but her, the warmth of her skin against mine, the way she felt around my hand, her cries in my ear.

She gave a sharp gasp and I felt her tighten around my fingers. Her eyes caught mine and a thrill ran through me. I gripped her hair and pulled her head back, not breaking eye contact with her, my other hand working furiously inside her.

For however briefly, I was in control, and I wanted her to know it.

She cried out, shuddering around me, and I kept my hand tightly wound in her hair, holding her in place. I leaned in and kissed her jaw, her neck, felt the quick flutter of her heartbeat under her skin, gradually slowing.

I pulled my hand away from her and she moaned. I held it out in front of us; my fingers were wet, slick with her.

I could feel her watching me. Waiting. I looked up at her and brought my fingers to my own mouth, licking at them, tasting her, before I also wiped my hand on the bedspread. Her mouth was parted slightly, her face flushed.

So this was power. This was what it felt like. No wonder Rebecca had chased this feeling so often.

Mrs. Danvers looked at me expectantly. Her composure had returned though her cheeks were still flushed, her breathing still irregular. And I looked down and realized I was still in nothing but my underclothes, my skin still stinging from where her nails had dug into it, and just like that, she was the one back in control.

I found I didn't mind it as much, this time, and then even that thought filled me with shame.

“I...” I started, “I never—”

She shook her head, pushed herself off the bed. “Stand up,” she commanded, and again I found myself obeying. I turned to look at her and found she was gently picking up my clothing, laying it carefully back on the bed. She looked at me and held my skirt out and I stepped into it without a word, understanding.

“Thank you,” I said, and she shook her head again. Her fingers brushed against my waist as she zipped my skirt.

“You only have to say,” she said, “and we will continue on as we were. We will never speak of this again.” She glanced at me. “You got what you wanted and so did I, that can be the end of it.”

Her tone was quiet, matter-of-fact. She handed me my blouse and I held my arms out for her to put it on me.

Did I want this to be the end of it?

But how could it not be? I was married to Maxim, I was Mrs. Danvers’ employer. As much as I had enjoyed this afternoon, that was all it had to be—one afternoon. I was not Rebecca; I was not going to keep inviting Mrs. Danvers down to the boathouse as if she were my lover. This had been a necessary exercise in control and that was how it should remain. I was not the sort of woman to keep some dalliance with the staff. No matter how much I had enjoyed it, no matter how much I still wanted the feeling of her hand on my cheek, her nails down my back.

She stood behind me, and I shivered, surprised to feel her cool hands on my skin.

“There may be a mark or two here,” she murmured, tracing a line down the small of my back with her finger. I swallowed.

“They'll fade,” I said, and I heard the regret in my own voice. She stepped away from me as I shrugged into my blouse, my face downcast.

So that was to be it, then.

I felt suddenly, startlingly sober, the reality of what we had just done—what I wished to do again even though I couldn’t—crashing back into me.

“It’s not raining anymore,” she said. I lifted my head. She was turned away from me, towards the window, the tips of her fingers on the glass. “I believe it’s safe to head back.”

“I... okay,” I said, and I could hear the disappointment in my own voice. She did look at me then, her expression almost soft.

I couldn’t bear it.

“We aren’t to speak of this again, Mrs. Danvers,” I said suddenly, harshly. “I’m—I love Mr. de Winter, I won’t betray him with continuing this. I’m not Rebecca.”

When I looked at her again her face had hardened, back into that mask I was so familiar with, the one she always wore around me up until today.

“Of course, Madam,” she said, and once again her voice was cold and lifeless. “As you wish. As you said, after all. You are not Rebecca.”

She left then without looking back at me, and I found myself staring after her, the growing feeling that I had made a mistake settling in my stomach.

I was not Rebecca. Rebecca would have been braver than I was. Rebecca would have tried to continue whatever this was because it made her feel—if not happiness, then _something._

I was not Rebecca. I was just myself.

Just a coward.

* * *

The rain began again just as I was crossing the walk into the gardens and I hurried inside. By the time I had showered and dressed appropriately for dinner, Maxim had been sitting at the table for half an hour, his food going cold.

“I’m sorry,” I began immediately as I came into the dining room. “I got caught in the rain, and—”

“It's fine,” he said, and when he smiled at me it did look genuine.

The sound of my fork against the porcelain of the plates was almost too loud, setting my teeth on edge. For one wild moment I was worried he'd be able to tell, that I carried some visible mark of my afternoon with Mrs. Danvers.

“The cottage was lovely,” I said, and immediately he frowned.

“I don't like you going down there.”

“Why not?” I shrugged. “It's not getting any use, I thought I could clean it up, make it something nice...”

When I met Maxim’s eyes again they were dark, angry.

“Never mind,” I said quickly, and went back to eating.

We finished the rest of our meal in silence; retiring to the library afterwards. I felt restless, ready to crawl out of my skin, afraid that any moment Mrs. Danvers would appear again.

But the further away from the afternoon I became, the less real it felt, like some delusion we had both partaken in, some wild fever dream.

“I’m going to bed early, darling, I think I’ve caught a bit of cold from the rain,” I said, standing. Maxim looked up at me, concern on his face.

“Should I call for the doctor?”

“No need.” I bent down to where he was sitting and kissed him on the forehead, the way he had me so many times. “I’m sure with some rest I’ll be all right. Tell Clarice I won’t need her tonight, no sense in her becoming ill.”

“Of course,” Maxim said, and kissed my knuckles. “Feel better.”

I hurried up the stairs to my room, my heart thundering as I shut the door behind me, my hands shaking.

“Stop it,” I chided myself as I paced back and forth in my room; briefly I wondered if Mrs. Danvers could hear my footsteps, if she was paying that close attention to me.

But of course she probably wasn’t, she had been the one who’d suggested we not speak of the incident. It was just a one-time thing to her that meant nothing, and I should put it out of my mind.

I couldn’t put it out of my mind.

My skin felt feverish; I hurried to undress, pausing at the mirror when I took off my satin underclothes. I turned and saw the faint lines down my back from where Mrs. Danvers had scratched me. Humiliation flooded me again then as I thought of how willing I’d been to let her do so, to let her slap me around like some dime novel heroine, to let her push her fingers inside my mouth.

I pressed my own shaking fingers to my lips, ashamed at the desire I still felt, at how badly I still wanted her to do all of those things again.

I shook my head and hurriedly shucked off the rest of my clothing, turning away from the mirror, my face burning. I pulled on a nightgown and crawled into bed, trying to stop my mind from racing.

There was an aching throb between my legs, and without thinking my hand ghosted down between them. I had only done this a few times before, but found myself spurred on by the memory of the afternoon.

And almost as quickly, I yanked my hand back. I couldn’t do this. I wouldn’t. This certainly wasn’t going to help me forget about everything, even if it would help me sleep.

I tried to turn my thoughts to Maxim, to the tender way he’d kissed me in the library, to the night we’d shared almost a week ago. I curled up on my side and tucked my hands up against my body and tried to fall asleep to thoughts of my husband, to the sound of the rain against the windows, to anything at all except what—and who—I truly wanted to think about.

Despite Maxim’s obvious dislike of the idea, I found myself going back down to the boathouse the following week, determined to actually make something out of it instead of letting everything go to rot. The weather was warm and it was a rare sunny day, so as soon as I got down to the boathouse I threw the windows and door open, grabbed a broom that was propped in the corner and began sweeping sand out of the entrance, determined to not look at the bed.

I grabbed a rag and dusted every surface I could find, taking note of places where mold was growing; perhaps I could ask Frith or Robert or one of the gardeners to show me how to take care of it.

But there was still the matter of Rebecca’s things; all of the knick-knacks and treasures that had belonged to her, still demanding to make their presence known.

I could give them to Jack, I decided suddenly; he had been complaining when I’d first met him about having something of Rebecca’s. Surely at least one of the things down here must be valuable, and if not, then at least I wouldn’t have to look at them anymore.

But Max would be furious if he knew Jack was at Manderley; I’d have to do it on another day he was out of town. And I’d have to bring the items with me, I didn’t want his presence down in the boathouse any more than I wanted Rebecca’s.

I looked around, it seemed there was nothing more to do except make the damned bed.

I walked over to it and picked up the corners of the sheets, pulling them taught, fluffed the pillows and then pulled the bedspread up. It had been a week since what I now referred to in my head as “the incident” and I had been trying my hardest not to think of it.

But here was the indent where my body had been, here was the slight spot she’d wiped her hand on the bedspread after it had been inside me.

I sat down on the bed and buried my head in my hands.

I would have them washed, I decided, or destroyed. I would call Mrs. Danvers and tell her to do it, and then I would replace the sheets down here, or I would get rid of the bed all together.

That was what I would do. I would give Rebecca’s things to Jack and I would tell Mrs. Danvers to take care of the rest and the space would finally be mine, and any ghosts or spectres—Rebecca or the ones I had created myself—would finally be banished from my mind forever.

I had a stroke of luck the next morning; Max was called away to London on business, and left immediately after breakfast, to be back a little after lunch. I immediately rang Jack up and told him to come by, that I had some things of Rebecca’s I thought he might be interested in. And then I rang Mrs. Danvers.

“Good morning, Mrs. de Winter.”

Her voice was cool and distant, the way it always was.

“Hello, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and was proud of myself for not allowing my voice to shake. “I’m renovating the boathouse and need you to take care of any laundry items that are down there; I will let you know what I decide about their return.”

A pause, and then I continued on. “Also Mr. Favell will be joining me for lunch today, so I need you to get things in order. I trust I can count on your discretion in both matters?”

My heart was beating rapidly in my chest. She didn’t respond for what felt like minutes, though I knew it could only have been a few seconds.

“Of course, Madam,” she said, and then I heard the click as she hung up the receiver.

That was it. That was all. I had barely spoken to her since the previous week and I found disappointment blooming in my chest again.

But what had I expected? For her to push back? For her to refuse to wash the bedding from the boathouse, to tell me that Favell was not allowed at Manderley?

Some part of me knew, too, that there was a chance Maxim would return while Favell was still at Manderley.

I was playing with fire, I knew, but there was some part of me that almost hoped for the small thrill of being burned.

Jack arrived shortly after I’d made the phone call. I’d asked him to meet me in the morning room, where I had Rebecca’s things neatly boxed up. He looked like he usually did, which brought some sort of comfort, at least I could count on him to be a constant.

“Hello, Jack,” I said. I took a seat near the desk and watched as he sat opposite me, I’d had Robert bring in some tea shorty before Jack’s arrival.

“Mrs. de Winter.” He glanced down at the box next to my chair. “You said you had some things for me?”

“Yes,” I said smoothly, and smiled at him. “I’ve taken the trouble of renovating the boathouse, you see, and there were several of Rebecca’s things down there that won’t be necessary any more. I thought you could have them.”

If Jack looked surprised, he hid it well. I slid the box towards him, watched as he rifled through its contents. There wasn’t much—some china that looked like family heirlooms, a few scarves, one or two small figurines that might have been worth something.

He looked puzzled, so I continued, “If they aren’t worth anything let me know, I’ll have the staff donate them or throw them out.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with a few knick-knacks, though I’ll take the china. Give the rest to Danny, I’m sure she’ll find something to do with it.” He barked a laugh.

At the mention of Mrs. Danvers my hands shook, I pressed them firmly into my lap so Jack wouldn’t see.

“I’m surprised she’s letting you get rid of these things—hell, I’m surprised she even let you into that boathouse.” A queer grin split his face. “Then again, it’s not like _she_ ever went down there with Rebecca.”

I forced my face to remain blank. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Favell.”

He turned his gaze to me then, and I resisted the urge to squirm under it. It was scrutinizing, uncomfortably so, and I was struck with the thought that of everyone, Jack was the one most likely to guess that something had transpired between me and Mrs. Danvers.

He was, after all, the person who had suggested it in the first place.

“No,” he said slowly after a moment, “No, I suppose you don’t, a little virgin like you.” He grinned again, a predator closing in on its prey. “I don’t suppose dear old Max would much like his young bride knowing about such dirty things; your only duty is to give him an heir, after all, and really for that process all you have to do is lie back and close your eyes.”

Anger burned through me then, my hands clenching in my lap. He was right and that was what stung the most, though I’d never admit it.

Jack stood then, looking me up and down. “If you do ever tire of having nothing to do, Mrs. de Winter, do give me a call. I dare say I could help you make that boathouse into something splendid, if you asked.” He tucked the china plates under his arm. “I was told you were providing lunch?”

My stomach turned. I had said that, but I didn’t want to be in Favell’s presence a second longer than I had to.

To my surprise though, his eyes widened; I turned and saw Mrs. Danvers standing in the entrance to the morning room.

“Mr. de Winter is back, Madam,” she said to me, pointedly ignoring Favell. I nodded.

“You should go then,” I said to him.

“Of course,” Jack said, and smiled at me again. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene with old Max. Do think about my offer, Mrs. de Winter, I dare say it’s a shame if that boathouse isn’t used again.” He brushed past me, laughed. “Then again, you could always just ask Danny.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Favell,” I said clearly, and he hastily left.

I could not bring myself to look at Mrs. Danvers. I was afraid if I did it would give something away, even if Jack was already gone.

I turned away from her and crossed the room, back towards the box of Rebecca’s things. “If you should want any of these take them, otherwise they’re being donated,” I said, not caring if she actually heard me or not, before I headed out into the hallway to meet Maxim.

* * *

I was worried Maxim would have seen Jack’s car as he’d left, but if he had, he gave no indication when he greeted me. I kissed him harder than I normally did, the adrenaline of the afternoon finally catching up with me. He pulled away and looked down at me with surprise.

“Hello,” I said breathlessly. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I missed you.”

Something flickered in his eyes for a moment before he smiled back down at me. “I missed you too. Shall we have lunch?”

“Yes,” I said, and eagerly followed him to the dining room.

Maxim and I made small talk while we ate, mostly about his trip to London with Crawley, the cricket match they’d attended. I ate very little, nodded my head at what I hoped were appropriate moments to match his questions.

The fire had not yet been lit in the library yet we found ourselves there anyway, the shutters open to let the afternoon sun in. Jasper was asleep by the chair, and I sat myself near the fireplace with a cup of tea.

Frith came in at that moment then and whispered something to Maxim; I didn’t pay attention to what it was until I looked up and found Maxim staring at me.

“Is something the matter?” I asked.

“You didn’t tell me Favell was here,” Maxim said, and his voice was low. I shrugged.

“I thought you would have seen his car when you pulled up, darling, I’m sorry.”

“Why was he here?”

I set my teacup down. “I invited him.”

Maxim’s face contorted, and I shivered. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I found some things of Rebecca’s in the boathouse and wanted to get rid of them; I figured it would be better to ask him to take them before I donated them.”

If I’d thought Max was angry before at the mention of Favell, the mention of the boathouse just set him off further. He sprang up out of his chair and crossed to the window, tension in every line of his body.

“I told you not to go down there,” he said.

“Why not?” I stood up, crossed the room to him. “It’s just a cottage, Maxim, and I thought—”

“That’s your problem,” he said. “I explicitly told you not to go down there; what you _think_ about it isn’t important.”

My stomach clenched. The urge to shrink back from him, to retreat, was strong.

But another smaller part of me was thrilled the notion of him pushing back, at this spar again for control.

“I live here too,” I said, and my voice shook but I pressed on. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t have some say in the house—”

He whipped around then and grabbed my wrists, and I wanted so desperately to feel that thrill I’d felt when Mrs. Danvers had done the same thing.

But all I felt now was fear. This was not a fair fight; there was no desire behind it, nothing to set Max and I on equal ground.

“Manderley,” he said quietly, “is mine. You may be my wife but I have the final say in how my house is run.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I could not look up at him. “I… you’re right, Maxim, I’m so sorry.” I could hear my voice trembling, could feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, but I refused to cry in front of him again.

He let go of my wrists then, his whole demeanor softening. I stepped away from him and wiped at my eyes, furious at myself for crying, for provoking him, for the entire mess of it all.

There was a soft knock and I looked up; as if my luck couldn’t get worse, Mrs. Danvers had appeared in the doorway.

How much had she heard? I was already humiliated enough; to think she’d heard Max yelling at me made the shame of everything burn even hotter.

“Mrs. Lacy wants to know if she and Major Lacy could come up tomorrow; they mentioned something about a small dinner party.” Her voice was even, offering no apology for the interruption.

I watched as Max turned towards Mrs. Danvers, the careful way he looked at her; the way, too, she stiffened when he turned his full attention on her. She didn’t even glance my way, and I tried not to be too obvious, looking back and forth between them, comparing.

“Damn it, I thought I’d told Beatrice no more parties,” Max said, and I flinched at the volume of his voice, hoping Mrs. Danvers wouldn’t notice.

“Shall I tell her no, then?” There was an edge to her voice I hadn’t heard before; she didn’t defer to him or call him ‘Sir’ the way she called me ‘Madam.’

“No,” Max said, and ran his hands through his hair. For the first time he looked over at me. “Would you be up for hosting a dinner with my sister and her husband tomorrow?”

It was the closest thing to an apology I knew I would get; his asking me if I would be all right with Beatrice coming over. Part of me wanted to say “No,” knew that he in fact wouldn’t mind that, seeing how quickly he grew tired of Beatrice.

But I didn’t want to appear weak in front of Mrs. Danvers—not weaker than I already had.

“Of course,” I said, and the smile on my face felt pasted on. “You know I adore Bee.”

I spoke to Maxim only, not daring to turn towards Mrs. Danvers, not daring to be the one to give her an order. Maxim didn’t notice.

“You heard Mrs. de Winter,” he said, and his tone was sharp. Mrs. Danvers inclined her head slightly and turned on her heel without glancing back at either of us. Maxim sank back into his chair.

I wanted to go to him and I didn’t; I wanted comfort and I wanted my own sense of control back and I didn’t know how to reconcile the two.

“Max,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He laughed, and it was hollow. “I forgive you. It’s just—” His eyes met mine. “For a moment, you almost sounded like Rebecca.”


	3. Chapter 3

I stayed in my room much of the day before the dinner party, too tired from the day before to even think of taking a walk. I didn’t want to see Maxim or Mrs. Danvers, so hiding out in my room seemed like the best course of action, even if I did feel a little bit like a sulking child.

At half six I called for Clarice; everyone would be arriving around six and I wanted some time to prepare. I had Clarice help me pick an outfit, her girlish excitement over everything was refreshing. We’d settled on a pale pink collared dress with a drop waist now that the weather was warming up, a dress I’d bought with my first pay from Mrs. van Hopper.

“You look lovely,” Clarice said, and she smiled genuinely at me. I smiled back. I felt more like myself, more confident. I could get through this dinner party—I would smile and say all the right things and the right jokes and Maxim would look at me with that adoring look, and after when he kissed me good night and complimented me on everything I would allow myself to go to bed with him.

That was what would happen, I decided.

I tucked my hair behind my ears and headed downstairs, my heels muffled by the carpet. This time there was no seizure of fear in my chest like there had been at the costume ball, and when Maxim turned to look at me this time the smile on his face was genuine.

Whether or not Mrs. Danvers was lurking and watching, though, I had no idea.

I hugged Maxim and kissed Beatrice on the cheek, laughing at some joke Giles had told that I hadn’t heard the punchline to as we made our way to the dining room. Everything felt easy, natural, Maxim’s and my spat from the night before forgotten.

We took our places at the dinner table, Giles still rambling on. Beatrice sat next to me, Giles and Maxim across from us. The mood was relaxed, friendly, and I let myself sink deeper into my fantasy of pulling this dinner party off.

Beatrice turned to me as we were picking at our salads, her eyes bright. “What have you been doing with your days lately?” She asked. “I hope Max doesn’t leave you too terribly alone all the time.”

“Just sketching,” I said, because what else could I say? I didn’t dare mention the boathouse, my little renovation project.

“Nothing else?” she asked. “Surely you ought to have a masterpiece to show us by now.”

I laughed. “No, no, it’s just—they’re quick sketches, little stupid things.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely stupid little things,” Beatrice said, and winked at me. “Max, didn’t you say her father was a painter? You should buy her some paints, that would give her something to do.”

I watched carefully as Maxim’s jaw tightened. “She already has plenty to do around the house.”

“What could she possibly do?” Beatrice asked, laughing. “I doubt Mrs. Danvers allows her to help with the housekeeping.”

That caused a hearty laugh from Giles. My stomach turned. I felt like a child again, or worse, a plaything, someone only there for their amusement, whose interests were charming at best.

“Mrs. de Winter keeps herself amused well enough,” Maxim said, “especially with her frivolous little hobbies. There’s no need to encourage her further.”

I swallowed hard, suddenly unable to take any more bites of my food. The table fell silent. I stared down at my plate.

Beatrice cleared her throat, the sound too loud. “I didn’t mean it,” she said suddenly, and I glanced up at her. “I’m sure your works aren’t stupid, dear, in fact I’d quite like to get you some paints myself if my brother won’t do it, maybe I’ll have you sketch me sometime.” She reached under the table and squeezed my hand, mouthed _I’m sorry_ at me. I squeezed her hand back.

I took a sip of water and waited, not realizing what I was waiting for until Giles abruptly switched the subject to cricket. Beatrice had realized I was upset and apologized, and Maxim?

Maxim had said nothing. Maxim had called my hobbies frivolous and meant it.

Disappointment settled further in my stomach like a hard stone. I pinched my thigh to snap myself out of it. Maxim had been callous but surely he hadn’t truly meant it; the evening could still be salvaged.

Our main courses were served and we fell silent, each busying ourselves with our food, the conversation lulling. But then Beatrice turned back to me and I recognized that look in her eye, it was the look of her having a topic she wouldn’t let go of.

“How are you getting along with Mrs. Danvers, by the way? I dare say she won’t let you help with the housekeeping, but other than that?”

“I… we’re fine,” I said quietly, and was about to say more when Maxim cut me off.

“She’s still scared of her, it’s like she thinks Mrs. Danvers is some old schoolmarm who’s going to punish her—”

“I’m not…”

“Yes, you are,” Maxim said. “Even just last night when she came in to ask us about dinner, you didn’t even look at her, you had me give her the orders.”

So he had noticed. I could feel my face heating up, and I pushed my mashed potatoes around on my plate, hoping Maxim wouldn’t continue the conversation. It was bad enough they all saw me as a child already.

“I’d be scared of her too—” Beatrice started, but Maxim shook his head.

“No you wouldn’t, Bee, you’ve got a backbone, you’re not some shrinking violet type.” He laughed. “If this keeps up I may fire her; I won’t have my wife cowering in fear of the staff.”

My stomach clenched further. “Maxim, I hardly think that’s necessary…”

“I can’t say I’d necessarily miss her; she was devoted more to Rebecca than to me, even if she does run a good house.” He looked over at me and grinned, a lopsided, queer thing. “Why don’t you do it, darling, if you’re not afraid of her, then?”

“What?”

“Max…” Beatrice started, but Maxim picked up the bell and rang for Frith, who appeared almost instantaneously.

“Go fetch Mrs. Danvers,” he said, and Frith bowed before heading out of the room. Maxim turned to me. “If you’re not afraid of her you’ll have no problem letting her go, I dare say I’ve grown tired enough of watching you hide from her like she’s the monster under the bed.”

“Max, really, this isn’t necessary,” Beatrice said, but Max just held up his hand. Giles looked back and forth between all of us.

I felt sick. I could only stare down at my plate, couldn’t dare let myself look at Beatrice or Giles, let alone Max. Any fantasies I’d had of this night going well were crushed.

I needed to say something.

But as soon as the thought entered my head, Beatrice spoke up. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “Really, this household wouldn't last one day without Mrs. Danvers.”

“Stay out of this, Beatrice,” Maxim snapped.

“I’m not watching you ruin this house for your own ego,” she snapped back. I shrank further into my seat.

I should have been the one arguing with Maxim, I should have been the one sticking up for Mrs. Danvers.

Why couldn’t I just open my mouth and do it?

“How I run my house is up to me,” Maxim said, nearly an echo of how he had spoken to me the night before.

But unlike me, Beatrice scoffed. “It’s _our_ family home, Maxim, and if I remember correctly Mrs. Danvers did more to run this house in the past year than you ever did.”

Maxim’s face colored, and I clenched my fists under the table, thinking of his outbursts, the way he’d grabbed my wrists last night.

I didn’t want to watch this play out but I had no other choice.

And then soon, far too soon, the doors to the dining room open and Mrs. Danvers stepped in, the tell-tale sound of her heels on the wooden floor my only clue she was there. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her.

After what felt like an eternity I finally lifted my head; she was standing with her hands folded in front of her waist, her back ramrod straight like always. No different than how she always looked.

“You called for me, Mr. de Winter?” she asked, her voice lifeless.

“Max…” Beatrice said, a warning in her voice, and Mrs. Danvers’ eyes flicked to her before landing back on Maxim. My knuckles were white around my silverware.

“Mrs. de Winter has something she wants to say to you,” Maxim said, and I could feel his gaze on me. I glanced at him, then at Mrs. Danvers, before casting my eyes back down to my plate. “Don’t you, dear?”

I could feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes and this time I did nothing to stop them. I had ruined everything and Maxim was just sitting there, letting all of it play out.

“See?” Maxim said after a minute when I hadn’t spoken. “She can’t even—”

“For God’s sake, Max, that’s enough,” Beatrice snapped, and Maxim glared at her. I turned to look at her too, surprised by the anger on her face. “Mrs. Danvers, my brother seems to think that Mrs. de Winter is afraid of you and has decided to humiliate the both of you by pretending to have her fire you.” Her gaze whipped back around towards Max. “When we all know this household wouldn’t function without you.”

Max scoffed. I lifted my head, looked at Mrs. Danvers. She was still in the same position she had been when she entered the room, but her knuckles were whiter with the effort of keeping her hands still.

“I see,” she said quietly. She directed her next question at me. “I take it my position is still secure, then?”

“Yes, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, but I still did not dare look at her, tears still silently coursing down my face. I could feel Max staring at me from across the table.

Beatrice reached out to me but I couldn’t bear her sympathy, couldn’t bear any of it a moment longer. I pushed my chair back and without a word to any of them fled from the dining room, my face hot with embarrassment, my eyes still burning.

* * *

Without really comprehending where I was going I found myself in the west wing again, my desire to be completely alone and undisturbed dwarfing any other sense. I felt angry—at Maxim, at Mrs. Danvers, at myself most of all. Angry and hurt and humiliated.

I crossed Rebecca’s room and opened the window, hoping the warm breeze would calm me down, or at least help me pretend the salt on my face was from the sea and not my own crying. I felt stupid. Pathetic. They were all still around that dinner table now, Maxim laughing at me, Beatrice just pitying me.

The door slammed behind me and I jumped, startled. I kept quiet, hoping it wasn’t Beatrice coming to comfort me, because I didn’t know how much of that I could take.

But when I turned, it wasn’t Beatrice. It was Mrs. Danvers. She hadn’t seen me, that much was clear. She was pacing furiously, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, her breathing ragged and uneven. Her face was no longer the smooth, indifferent mask she had worn in the dining room, it was contorted with rage, and if I hadn’t known any better, I would have said her eyes were as red and puffy as my own.

I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to witness this. I’d had my fill of my own intense emotions for the evening.

I stepped off the balcony and tried to flatten myself against the wall but it was no use, my heels made a sound on the floor. Her head snapped up, pinning me where I stood with her gaze.

“You,” she growled. She stormed up to me, my back against the wall as she advanced until we were almost nose to nose. Up close I could see she’d been crying, but unlike me, it wasn’t out of self-pity. It was anger.

The sting of her hand across my cheek wasn’t fully unexpected, but I cried out anyway. She gripped the collar of my dress in her fist, pulling my face directly up to hers.

“How _dare_ you,” she said, her voice as low and furious as I’d ever heard it. “If I’d known you were going to be this much trouble I never would have gone down to that boathouse.”

“I—”

“Shut up,” she growled. “You almost cost me my job, my home, the one thing I have left—all because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.” Her hands shook. Tears were still running down my cheeks. When she slapped me again I gasped, the hot rush of humiliation inside me building into something else.

“Look at you,” she said. “You couldn’t even stand up to your husband, you would have let him fire me out of cowardice to save your own skin, you—”

“Stop!” I screamed, and could barely believe the words had come out of my own mouth. All the pent-up rage and humiliation and fear had finally reached a boiling point, and I pushed her off of me. Mrs. Danvers stumbled back from me, nearly tripping on her skirts, grabbing onto the bedpost for support. I shoved her again, watched as she fell back onto the bed, satisfaction blooming in my gut.

My chest was heaving, my face smarting from where she’d hit me. I wanted to hurt her, I wanted her to feel as embarrassed as I’d felt.

But she was quicker than I was, and in an instant had me pinned back against the wall, her fingers now wound in my hair. She yanked on it, hard, and I cried out, my knees almost buckling under me.

She was so close to me I thought she would kiss me, but she didn’t. Her other hand tore at my dress, ripping the collar open, her mouth immediately moving down to my neck as she ripped my dress off my shoulder.

She bit down, hard, and I cried out again, both from the sting of her mouth and of my scalp, my knees buckling again when she bit me, her grip still firm in my hair. I was certain the mark she left was going to bruise.

“Mrs. Danvers—”

“Shut up,” she growled again, her hand leaving my hair to smack my cheek. Her breath was hot in my face. “I don’t want to hear how you’re worried Mr. de Winter will see these marks. I don’t care,” she spit out. She bit me again, the fabric of my dress ripping further.

My face burned. But this was what I deserved. I had not been able to stand up to Maxim, had barely been able to utter a sentence, and my feelings for Mrs. Danvers—whatever they were—had nearly gotten her fired.

Whatever punishment she doled out, I was willing to take it. I even wanted to take it, and that thought sent another rush of shame through me.

In desperation I clawed at her back, trying to find some purchase, some way to gain the upper hand on her. But the fabric of her dress was stiff and wouldn’t tear as easily as mine had, and she quickly grasped my wrists, pinning them above my head, her face flushed with the exertion of holding me still. She was skinny but she was strong, and I didn't dare move.

I waited, trembling, aware that half my dress was torn, my neck and chest exposed.

“You almost ruined me,” she hissed, “and for what? You were the one who said we couldn't continue, you were the one who insisted it end, and you couldn't even face me after, could you?” A smile spread across her face, sharp and dangerous. “Too afraid to admit you actually enjoy being humiliated, Mrs. de Winter?”

I blinked. She didn't sound angry with me, she sounded taunting. But one look at her face, the feeling of her fingers around my wrists, told me she was still furious. She just knew how to control herself better than I did.

She dropped her hands from my wrists, but I didn't dare move them. One hand slid up my thigh, pushed my underwear aside. I closed my eyes, but she grabbed my chin.

“Look at me,” she snarled, and I did so. Her face was calm but that feverish excitement and fury I had seen earlier was still dancing behind her eyes. “Open your mouth.”

I shook my head. I could feel tears at the backs of my eyes again, shame at the desire I was feeling. I couldn't let her win.

Her expression darkened, and without taking her eyes off me she dug her nails into my thigh, hard. I cried out and immediately realized my mistake; as soon as I opened my mouth she shoved two fingers inside of it. I whimpered around her hand.

I deserved this. I deserved all of this, the embarrassment and humiliation at not speaking up for her, at the desire I felt even now. Her thumb was still planted firmly under my chin, her eyes burning into mine.

“You stupid girl,” she muttered. “You stupid, foolish girl.”

With every syllable her other hand came further up my thigh until she was grasping at the waistband of my underwear, yanking it down in one final movement.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak to defend myself, not that I even would have. What would I have said? She was right. I had jeopardized her entire life, all because of what?

Because I was too afraid to admit that I liked what she had done to me that day in the boathouse, what she was doing to me now?

Her hand was now between my legs, her palm pressed against me. I shifted, trying to get her to where I wanted her, but she shook her head.

“This isn’t about what you want right now, Mrs. de Winter,” she snarled. She began to stroke me, much harder and faster than she had in the boathouse, so I barely had time to react. She drew her fingers almost out of my mouth before pushing them back in; I tried hard to keep from coughing. I whimpered, which just spurred her on. She didn’t enter me, which was what I wanted—and she knew it, I could tell by the look on her face.

Last time she had demanded to know what I wanted; this time she knew and was deliberately ignoring it. This was my punishment, then, one I fully deserved.

And all too quickly I had climaxed, crying out around her in surprise. It had been hard and fast and not at all what I needed, but I still thought, surely now her anger at me will be spent, surely now she’ll give me a moment to catch my breath.

But she didn’t. Her eyes met mine with that same feverish, determined look, and she kept up the same pace she had previously. Again I was struck by our height difference; she still towered over me, and with the firm grip she kept on my chin I could look at nothing else but her.

This wasn't about Rebecca anymore, or Maxim, and what they could not give us. This was hatred, lust, and something else darker entirely, and it was purely between me and Mrs. Danvers.

I tried to speak around her fingers but couldn’t. I felt myself splintering apart again, my breathing ragged, and her hand still in my mouth and that look on her face, like she wasn’t quite seeing me. I needed it to end or she was going to undo me entirely.

I bit down on her knuckles with my front teeth, and she yanked her hand out of my mouth, her other that was between my legs also faltering. My arms dropped to my sides and I pushed her back from me, not as hard as I had the first time. I was panting, my face was flushed, and I couldn’t discern if my cheeks were still wet or if I had started crying again.

I swallowed, wondering how undignified it would be to pull my own underwear back up, then decided just stepping out of it and smoothing my skirt down would have to do; my dignity was already shredded, had been the moment she’d turned around and seen me here. There was nothing that could be done about the dress collar, which now hung limply off my shoulder, the marks from her teeth already blossoming into a deep purple.

I saw her gaze flit to those marks and then back to me, and I knew that whatever was between us, whatever had begun that day she had caught me in Rebecca’s clothing, it wasn’t finished yet.

But she didn’t step closer to me, instead, she turned her back to me, her body sagging forward briefly before straightening back up into her normal posture. All the anger seemed to have drained out of her.

“Mrs. Danvers...”

“Go,” she said, her voice ragged. “Just go. There’s been enough damage for one night.”

I swallowed, unsure if she was talking about the bruises she’d left on me or something else entirely. Mustering up what was left of my dignity, I walked past her, slowly, deliberately.

I did not look back.

* * *

Beatrice and Giles had thankfully already left by the time I exited the west wing, and it was late enough the remaining servants had gone to bed. I didn’t dare risk running into Maxim in the state I was in, instead heading straight to my room.

For a long time I just stood there in the dark, still shaking. I turned the small lamp by my bedside on and got undressed, finally giving in and turning all the lamps on to inspect my dress. It had been ripped clearly at the seam; an easy enough fix. I wasn’t talented with a needle, and with a sinking feeling I realized that I would have to ask Mrs. Danvers to do it, as asking anyone else would require an explanation I knew I didn’t have.

As I undressed, too, it occurred to me that my underwear was still in Rebecca’s room, and again shame and dread burned hot through me at the thought of what I had let Mrs. Danvers do.

I changed into a nightgown and crawled into bed, my frustration and humiliation at the day’s events finally catching up to me.

What was I doing? What had I done? I had almost gotten Mrs. Danvers fired, all because I...

I what?

I didn’t want to admit it but the answer was there, that I had some sort of feeling for her. It was not affection, not even close, but she was the only person I didn’t feel like I was playing any sort of game with. She had been open about her hostility with me right from the start, and that, I realized, was at least slightly refreshing after feeling like an outsider in Maxim’s world, with everyone pretending I wasn’t.

I was not and would never be Rebecca, and she was the only person who would dare acknowledge that. They all thought it, everyone at Manderley, of that I was sure. But they would never say it to my face. I was Mrs. de Winter, as if I had always been, never mind that they’d all snickered behind my back at all of my childish mistakes.

The other part of my attraction to her I didn’t even want to think about as it both frightened and exhilarated me—that I felt something with her, at least physically, that I had never once felt with my own husband. Even barring that fact, Maxim had still embarrassed me tonight in front of the rest of his family, and hadn’t once apologized. And I no longer believed, as I first had when I had come to Manderley, that everything could work out between us.

God, was I doomed to be Rebecca, then? Carrying on affairs behind Maxim’s back, just to feel some sort of thrill? Some happiness?

Did I still believe Maxim and I could be happy together?

I groaned and buried my face in my pillow, determined not to cry. But the tears came anyway, as they always did, and when they subsided I did feel calmer, though nowhere near close to any sort of answers.

* * *

This time it was Maxim and I who danced uncomfortably around each other, until one morning a few days later when he came into the morning room. Beatrice, true to her word, had sent me a package with some painting supplies and a small note that held an apology. I had almost teared up upon reading it.

I was arranging my supplies in the corner when the door opened; for a second I thought it would be Mrs. Danvers. But it was Maxim, looking almost too large in the doorframe.

I bit my lip, turned to him. We had been courteous with each other when we saw one another, and if the staff knew something had soured between us, they hadn’t breathed a word of it in our presence.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning.” He stood feet apart from me and I found myself suddenly wanting to run to him, to let him embrace me and smooth his hand over my hair and tell me everything was all right. “I...” He sighed. “You must have thought me quite boorish the other evening.”

I blinked. “What?”

“With Beatrice, and... and Mrs. Danvers,” he said. “Of course I wouldn’t have fired her, darling, I thought surely you would have seen it was a joke. But perhaps I did take it a bit too far.”

I wanted to be satisfied. I wanted to believe his apology, I wanted that to be the end of it.

I wanted to be the girl who had married him.

“Oh, Maxim,” I said, and was surprised at how easy it was to smile at him. “I knew you wouldn't do it, of course. She really is invaluable to us.”

This time Maxim looked surprised. “So you are getting along, then.”

“Yes, naturally,” I said. “I can’t imagine what I would do without her; you know I’m not experienced in running a household.”

Maxim’s face clouded, but only for a second, before he smiled at me again. His gaze drifted to the package Beatrice had sent, then back to me.

“I was also thinking,” he said. “About that boathouse. You’re absolutely right.”

“What?”

“There’s no reason you can’t fix it up, use it as an artist’s cottage for your painting,” he said, and I was momentarily speechless.

“I... Maxim, thank you!” I cried, and then I did go to hug him. He pulled me close and for a moment I let myself be comforted by him, by the thought of what he had done, trying to ignore that voice in the back of my head that told me he hadn’t really apologized, not at all.

I spent the rest of the day down at the cottage, happily setting up an easel, paints, and clearing out yet another box of Rebecca’s things. I didn’t know if I wanted to keep the bed or not, though it would be nice, perhaps, to nap down here every once in awhile.

Cleaning was helpful, too, the repetitive tasks taking my mind off my relationship with Maxim and the complications of all of it, the choice I felt was lurking just around a corner that I did not want to face.

I was happy. I had said I was happy and so that was to be it. Maxim and I were no longer fighting. Mrs. Danvers and I had seemed to reach some sort of tentative truce. Whatever madness had possessed us all in the last few days could come to an end, and we could all continue on as we were.

* * *

Nearly three weeks passed and the house fell into a comfortable routine, and for the first time since my arrival I felt like I actually belonged at Manderley. The cottage was shaping up nicely, and I had managed to even start some painting while I was down there—a simple landscape, a view of the sea, but I did like it. Maxim and I spent our evenings reading, and the one time we did go to bed together, it was over quickly enough I found myself not having to dwell on it.

We were at lunch, planning a drive up the following week to see Beatrice and Giles. Maxim was discussing the possibility of Crawley coming up for dinner the next evening, menus set out in front of us.

“If Crawley’s coming I’ll need to change the menu,” I said. “Didn’t you say he’s on that odd kick where he refuses to eat fish?”

Maxim smiled. “Says he’s spent too much time by the sea lately.” Something in his face changed, just barely. “You’ll have to notify Mrs. Danvers.”

I felt that uncomfortable pricking along my skin again like I had so many weeks ago. This was a test, I knew it at once, though Maxim would never dare say so. I’d thought we were past this, but one look at Maxim told me that we might never be.

“Of course,” I said, and I rang for Robert, much like Maxim had done, and the words that came out of my mouth, “Do fetch Mrs. Danvers for me,” were much the same.

There was no agonizing wait for her this time, she strode in the room as if she’d been expecting it, her gaze now completely directed at me and ignoring Maxim. “You rang, Madam?”

I could feel Maxim watching, waiting for me to crumble.

“Yes,” I said, and picked up one of the menus I’d been looking at before. “I’ll need you to change to this menu for tomorrow evening; Mr. Crawley is arriving and I was just informed he no longer eats fish.”

The corner of Mrs. Danvers’ mouth twitched, imperceptible to anyone but me, who’d been watching her so closely. It might have almost been a smile, just the barest hint of one.

Mrs. Danvers leaned in closer to me to take the menu, her hand brushing mine when she did so, and I prayed my face wouldn’t heat up or turn the dastardly shade of red it sometimes did when I was embarrassed.

“As you wish, Madam. I will inform the staff,” she said, and with a quick incline of her head towards Maxim, swiftly left the room. I pressed my hands quickly back into my lap to stop them from shaking, not daring to even look at Maxim.

I held my breath, waiting. When I finally did look at him, he was smiling.

“It seems you are getting along,” he said. “I must say darling, I’m impressed. I almost didn’t think you had it in you.” He smiled. “Maybe my little joke the other week did help you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said, smiling coolly across the table at him. My old anger and resentment had flared at his words, but I stuffed back down, and reached over and squeezed his hand.

I spent the rest of the day down at the cottage painting, again having forsaken dinner for whatever I could rustle up from the pantry. By the time I returned to the house the servants had all gone to bed, Clarice instructed not to wait up for me.

I thought again of the dinner with Crawley tomorrow, and crossed the room to my closet, riffling through the dresses for something suitable for tomorrow’s dinner when something caught my eye. It was the pale pink dress I had worn that night almost a month ago, the collar still hanging sadly off it.

I picked the dress up, staring at the rip in it, knowing it would need to be fixed before dinner tomorrow evening, and also finally allowing myself to acknowledge that this was the excuse I had been looking for.

I folded the dress over my arm and stole out of my room, heading down the hall before realizing I didn’t know where the servant’s quarters at Manderley were. Something told me they would be at the back of the house, and indeed, the stairway I had always taken up to the west wing, to Rebecca’s room, also lead to a small door that, when opened, revealed another hidden set of stairs.

I descended them, unsure of where to go, but knowing I only had a few options; Mrs. Danvers had mentioned once that the house telephone ran directly to her own room, so I knew she would be alone. Her door was also most likely locked, so any open doors I saw could be disregarded. Only she and Frith stayed on at the manor at night, the rest of the servants living in a small area near the estate, so as long as the door I knocked on didn’t happen to be Frith’s...

I paused at the end of the hallway. There were two doors on either side, and I pressed my ear to the one on the left, hoping the sound would give me some clue as to who inhabited it. I heard nothing but a light snoring, and praying that it was Frith, knocked then on the door on the right.

After a minute, it opened, just a small crack, and I heard the voice that had become familiar to me over the past few months. “Yes?”

“It’s... it’s only me, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and she opened the door further. I blinked. It was strange, to not see her in the black dress I was so accustomed to but a simple nightgown, her hair not in its normal severe bun but in a low braid down her back.

She looked younger. She looked Maxim’s age, suddenly, and I realized she probably was.

“What do you want?” she asked, and it wasn’t harsh, the way it would have been before.

“I...” I held out the dress, watched recognition blossom on her face as she took in what it was. “I’d like to wear this tomorrow and I need you to mend it. I’m no good with a needle.” She took the dress from me and held it up, surveying the rip, and I could only imagine what she was thinking, because it was the same thing I was.

“It... it tore cleanly,” I said. “So it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Her eyes met mine. “Why did you bring this to me now? Why did you not wait until morning?”

Again, this challenge, again a question I didn’t want to answer.

But I knew the answer this time, and for once, I found myself ready to give it. I leaned in and kissed her, softly, before pulling back.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For almost getting you fired. For... for being such a coward.” I glanced at her, one of her eyebrows raised as if to say, _Go on._ I took a deep breath and continued. “I... The truth is, I... I like being with you.” I swallowed. “I’m not—I’m not professing any sort of love, or anything, that’s not how I feel, but... in the entire time I’ve been at Manderley you are the only person who’s never pretended that I am something I’m not.” I sighed. “And if... if I am to stay here at Manderley, I... I need that. I need someone who’s going to criticize me if I order the wrong type of soup, who’s going to tell me which mistakes I’m making and how to fix them, not just gloss over them like they don’t exist.” I sighed. “I... I still love Maxim. I do. But he...”

She didn’t let me finish that sentence. She kissed me again, then, her hand moving to my waist, pulling me into her. With her other hand she shut the door behind us, and when we pulled apart, her face was flushed.

“Sit down, Mrs. de Winter,” she said, and directed me to a small chair in front of a plain mirror. Her room was barely the size of Rebecca’s anteroom, nothing but a bed, her vanity, and a closet, which I had half an urge to open just to see if there were more black dresses in it, or if she did wear other clothing.

I sat in the chair and felt her hands on my shoulders, watching as she took the brush from her vanity and, to my surprise, began brushing my own straight hair, much as she would have Rebecca’s. The gesture was almost intimate, it surprised me, mostly because I felt that she wasn’t doing it to compare me to Rebecca, but just because she could, because it gave her something to do while she spoke.

“You’re suggesting,” she said as she combed through my hair. “That you continue on living with Mr. de Winter, and come to me... when? Whenever you need that sort of comfort?” She laughed. “I thought Mr. de Winter would do a fine enough job humiliating you on his own.”

My face burned. This wasn’t what I had meant, and I tried to stand, but she gripped my shoulders and pushed me back down into the chair.

“That’s not...” I started, but she shook her head.

“I know it isn’t,” she said, and her voice was suddenly tired. Her hands stilled. “To be frank with you, I wouldn’t mind such an arrangement, provided it is... mutually beneficial.” She resumed brushing my hair, her strokes slightly harder than before. “It’s the sort of thing I could never have dreamt of with Rebecca. But then again, you aren’t her.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not.” It didn’t feel like an admission of defeat this time, though.

I waited for her to say something else. To my surprise, she placed the brush back on the vanity, and I watched in the mirror as she picked up the dress, which had fallen to the floor, watched as she ran her fingers over the place she’d torn it.

“I am sorry,” she said, and her voice was almost quiet enough I couldn’t hear it. “For that night.”

“Don’t be,” I said, and she caught my eye in the mirror. She turned from me and hung the dress carefully before crossing the small space back to the vanity, her hands back on my shoulders, before she bent down to kiss my neck. I moaned, and she slipped her hands further under my nightgown before pulling back.

“So this is it, then,” she said, and her voice was low. “You continue on playing at being the mistress of Manderley—I will help you with that, you have my word—you keep up this charade you have going with Maxim, and...” She gently nipped at my earlobe before kissing my neck, I felt myself shiver. “And when Maxim isn’t enough for you, you come to me?”

I squirmed under her. “It sounds rather one-sided, when you put it that way.”

She chuckled. “Let me try again, then.” She kissed the other side of my neck. “I help you restore Manderley to what it was when Rebecca was alive, and I get to live with the knowledge that Mr. de Winter will never be truly happy.” Her teeth, then, at my shoulder, nipping gently. “And... if I should ever want to come to you?”

I shivered, truthfully not having considered that as a possibility, given that I still didn’t know quite how Mrs. Danvers felt about me. “Would you want to?”

She stilled, then, and straightened back up, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, one hand still on my shoulder.

“As you said,” she said. “I have no feelings towards you either way, Mrs. de Winter. But... you are also the only one in this house who knows what Rebecca meant to me.” She sighed. “And that isn’t nothing.”

“No,” I said, “it isn’t.” My mouth was dry. “So if you should... _want_ me, Mrs. Danvers, you can always ring me on the house telephone; I can tell you that I will be spending a fair amount of time in the boathouse now that I’ve converted it.” I allowed myself to smile. “You... you should come see it, I’m actually quite proud of it.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “Now...” My breath hitched in my throat. “I know you didn’t come down here in the middle of the night just to get that dress fixed.”

“I didn’t,” I said. I stood up and this time she let me; I turned to face her, bracing myself on the vanity. She leaned in and kissed me then, her tongue tracing over my lips, followed by her teeth. She was gentler than she had been that night in Rebecca’s room, even more than she had been in the boathouse, and I found that I liked it. I kissed her back, my hands moving to her waist, her skin warm under the thin fabric of her nightgown.

She took my hands and placed them on her breasts, her breath catching. She pressed harder against me, her hand circling around to the small of my back, pulling me to her. I brushed my thumb against her nipple and she arched into me, her hand moving back around to my thigh, pushing my nightgown up above my hips.

I moaned. I wanted her to touch me but not yet; not when our last two interactions had gone that way. I wanted control first.

I gently grabbed her wrist and put her hand back on my waist, pulling back from her. She looked at me, eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing?”

I kissed her jaw, her neck, the dip between her breasts, before looking up at her. “Making this not one-sided,” I said, and laughed. “Last time if I recall, I didn’t get to touch you at all.”

“I didn’t realize you were running a tally,” she murmured.

“I’m not,” I gripped her waist, turning us both so that her back was now to the vanity. “If you’re going to complain though, I’ll stop.”

I made to pull my hand away from her thigh but she snatched it back, using me to push the skirt of her nightgown up. I went to touch her but she shook her head.

“I have something else in mind,” she said quietly. “On your knees.”

My breath caught in my throat and I sank down onto my knees before I could give though to how readily I’d done so. She twined her fingers through my hair, and I met her gaze. I understood and I didn’t at the same time as I kissed the inside of her thigh. When I didn’t go further, she sighed.

“I suppose it was too much to think that Mr. de Winter had ever asked you to do something similar,” she said. I bit my lip to keep from laughing, and she smirked. “I see I’m going to have to teach you everything, aren't I?”

Pleasure flooded me at the thought, and I moaned, pressing my nails into her thigh. She laughed again, her hand that was in my hair gently tugging me closer to her. I pressed my mouth between her legs. She tasted familiar, the same as when I had tasted her that day in the boathouse, my own fingers in my mouth, and it wasn’t unpleasant. I found I knew somewhat what to do with my mouth; it wasn't unlike kissing, in a way.

I pressed the flat of my tongue against her and she moaned, her hips gently rocking against me. Spurred on by her movements I did it again, harder, until I had built up a steady rhythm, my hands gripping her thighs. She gasped and pulled me into her even more, her fingers digging into my scalp.

This was different than the boathouse, where I had been fighting her to give up her control. This time I’d taken it from her willingly, and the thought sent another surge of pleasure to me. Already I was learning the ways her body responded to mine, the hitch of her breath when my tongue hit a particularly sensitive spot, the tensing of her muscles as she drew close to climax.

Her fingers tightened in my hair, and I moaned, knowing as I did so that she would pull it even harder, knowing too that that was what I wanted.

And then her thighs clenched around me as she cried out, and I kept my hold on her as she rocked against my mouth, her cries stifled. My jaw ached, my scalp stung, but I didn’t dare let go of her. When I finally did pull away she was still panting; I couldn’t resist the urge to smirk up at her.

She sighed, lightly traced her hand down my jaw before softly smacking me on the cheek, a gentle reprimand.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

My breath caught in my throat. For a second I feared I had gone too far, that I had reminded her of Rebecca and that this night was going to come to an abrupt end.

“Oh?” I asked quietly, and her gaze sharpened down at me.

“No,” she said, and bent down and kissed me, her tongue in my mouth, tasting. She pulled back. “You look far too pleased with yourself, Mrs. de Winter.” She smiled, her hand back on my jaw, “And you’ve barely done anything to earn that.”

I swallowed. She leaned back from me, giving me space to stand, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. I placed my hands back on her thighs, trying to push her back towards the vanity, to get her where I wanted so I could have my mouth on her like that again, but she just pushed me away and laughed.

“Are you always this eager to please?” she asked, stepping around me, towards her bed. Without the resistance of her body my hands hit the floor with a solid thud, and my face burned as she laughed. I scrambled to my feet and reached out for her arm, pulling her back to me.

When I kissed her this time I was aware of the taste of her still on my tongue, the way she pulled at my bottom lip, the fire rushing through my veins every time she kissed me. She turned us so my back was to the bed, the backs of my knees catching the edge of it so I half-sank, half-fell onto it.

Her lips moved to my neck and I shivered under her, her hands now on my breasts, my waist, my thighs. Her hand lightly drifted between my legs before pulling back, and I groaned in frustration.

“Danny...”

She stilled above me, her body suddenly tense, rigid, and again I worried I had taken this a step too far.

But when her gaze met mine this time it wasn’t angry, wasn’t full of regret and sadness over Rebecca.

“I’m sorry,” I began, and she shook her head.

“No. Don’t be.” A smile ghosted across her face. “To tell you the truth, Mrs. de Winter, I don’t think I mind it so much now.” She kissed my jaw again, softly. “At the least, I’d prefer _you_ call me that than Favell.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “All... all right, then.”

“Mm.” She shifted, her thighs on either side of my hips so she was completely straddling me, and for one moment I was reminded of the few times I had lain with Maxim. I stifled a laugh.

“What?” she asked. I shook my head.

“I just... well, this is almost the same position as when a man and a woman are together, isn’t it?”

She looked down at our bodies, a smile playing across the corners of her mouth. “I suppose it is. Though I hope you’re not about to tell me you’d prefer Mr. de Winter right now.”

“No,” I said, laughing. Guilt sparked in me then, a tiny thing, at all the many ways I was betraying my husband.

“Good,” she said. She stared down at me and I resisted the urge to shiver at the expression on her face, like she wanted to devour me whole. She leaned down close to me and kissed my neck, tantalizingly slow, then my collarbone, her hands swiftly undoing the buttons on my nightgown before she sat back up.

“I think,” she said, “this is in my way. May I?”

I paused. I had never been fully undressed in front of anyone before, and while I was still wearing underwear, I hadn’t worn any sort of bra under my nightgown. I hadn’t even been fully undressed in front of Maxim on our wedding night, and in fact still got very shy, not only around him but around Clarice whenever she had to dress me, often preferring to change behind my screen and then have her adjust my outfit or help with any remaining buttons.

“Yes,” I whispered, and she took the hem of my nightgown, tugging it up over my body, though she paused before she reached my chest.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “And don’t lie and say you aren’t, you’ve got that wide-eyed look on your face.”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably, and resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. She smiled, and it was almost soft, almost comforting.

“It’s just...” I started. “I’ve... I don’t know. I’ve never... I've never been like this with someone before. This exposed, I mean,” I said, and it wasn’t just the clothing I was talking about, but the unbearable vulnerability of it all, of what we were about to do. What we had already done. There was no mask to hide behind anymore, no pretending, no wishing that she or I were someone else the way we had that first time.

She kept looking down at me as if she were waiting for me to continue, and I could feel my face flush.

“I’m being foolish,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I reached up between us and grabbed the hem of my own nightgown. “I might... I might feel better if I helped take it off, though.”

She leaned back, taking some of her weight off of me, allowing me to sit up so I could tug the nightgown over my head. I immediately discarded it on the floor, crossing my arms over my chest after I laid back down, my face still burning.

She leaned back over me, the fabric of her own nightgown tickling my bare skin, her body warm against mine.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she said softly. I swallowed.

“Yes—no, but I—”

She kissed my neck again, and I sucked in a breath, waiting. I thought she would say something, offer some sort of words to ease my discomfort, but she didn’t, and I found that after a minute, I had relaxed into that knowledge. Her comforting me would have felt false, would have in fact made me feel worse, made me feel even more like I didn’t know what I was doing. She simply laid there and waited until I wasn’t tense anymore before kissing me again, resuming the same path down my body she had taken before.

When she reached my breasts I moaned, surprised with how good it felt, her tongue flicking over my skin. She took her time, making her way lower and lower down my body until she was nestled between my legs.

“These need to go, too,” she said, hooking one finger under the waistband of my underwear. “If I’m to finish what you started.”

“Please,” I whispered, and this time while embarrassment still made itself known in my body, I also felt again that rush of desire.

I lifted my hips so she could pull them down more easily, closing my eyes as she did so until I felt her weight back on my body. I swallowed, hard. I no longer felt so exposed, even if I was a bit cold, the absence of her body heat now more noticeable as she settled back between my legs.

Her eyes met mine, one eyebrow quirked up as if she were asking a question, and I nodded in understanding. The last encounter we’d had she had done what she wanted; her pause here was asking for a permission I found myself all too willing to give.

I jumped when her mouth made contact with me, a loud moan escaping before I could stop myself. I heard her laugh before she continued, and no sooner had embarrassment filled me when it was quickly replaced by the thought of how exquisite her mouth on me felt.

She used a different rhythm than I had, taking her time, her tongue almost lazily swirling around me. Any time I could feel myself getting close, she slowed, backing off, until I was almost panting with frustration.

“Mrs. Dan—Danny,” I whined, and she stilled.

“Mm?” She lifted her head. “Is there something you wanted?” Her tone was light, teasing.

“I... I want you to keep going,” I said. “Please, I... I want...” I looked away from her. “Oh, don’t make me say it, please.”

She smirked. “I won’t. Not now.” She dipped her head back down and I waited. Instead, she paused, glancing back up at me. “But next time, Mrs. de Winter, I do want to hear you beg.”

“Oh,” I gasped, and then her mouth was back on me, moving at a steady, quick pace, and my thighs trembled as she brought me even closer. I twined my right hand through her hair, pulling her closer, satisfied at the gasp I elicited from her when I did so. Her nails dug into my hips in response as her mouth moved slightly lower, until her tongue was inside me the way her fingers had been that first time.

My hips bucked against her mouth. I was so close, and it did not feel real, what she was doing to me, how she was making me feel. I tightened my grip in her hair, panting, knowing any second she would send me over the edge.

“Ah—!”

A hand clapped over my mouth and it took a moment to register it was mine, stifling my cries as I rode out my own undoing.

I was still panting when I finally opened my eyes, suddenly aware of every sensation in my body, the heaviness of my limbs, the wetness between my legs, the warmth of her body still on mine. She was looking down at me, her expression amused.

I lay there, waiting, waiting for embarrassment or shame or some other sort of dark emotion to flood me.

I should have felt ashamed, shouldn’t I? I had horribly betrayed my husband, and what was more, I had betrayed him in the worst way—an affair not just with our housekeeper but with another woman; I had let her do things to me that I never in any sort of my wildest daydreams could have imagined, had done the same in return.

But all I felt was satisfaction.

I pushed myself up so I was sitting, leaning in towards Mrs. Danvers so I could kiss her. She shook her head, pulled back.

“You don’t get to look at me like that, either,” she said softly.

“Like what?”

“Soft,” she said. She traced her thumb over my bottom lip. “Like you’re some schoolgirl with a crush.”

I felt like it, a little bit. I blushed, and she laughed.

“That proves my point.”

“I don’t have feelings for you,” I said. I reached out, traced her jaw, down her neck, before moving my hand to her thighs, under her nightgown. “I just...”

“I know,” she said. I thought for a moment she would stop me from touching her—for hadn’t we both already gotten what we wanted?

But the look on her face told me she wasn’t done.

And if I was being honest, neither was I.

My lips crashed into hers, pure desire and want and need. I slid my hand between us and she shifted, giving me better access to her as we broke apart. I slipped one finger inside her, leaning my body into hers, my lips at her neck as I rocked against her. I bit at the skin where her neck curved into her shoulder and she groaned.

“Harder,” she said, and I thrust deeper into her, my finger buried in her almost to the knuckle. Her lips were at my ear, her panting the only thing I could focus on. She pulled me closer to her, her nails digging into my back.

“More,” she gasped. “Like you mean it.”

I pulled away, looking at her as I slid another finger in.

“Good girl,” she murmured, and I flushed at the praise. She smiled. “You _are_ eager to please, aren't you?”

I moaned. I didn't care if she said I was eager, didn't care if she teased me for it. For the first time in my life I knew what I wanted—and knew how to go after it.

My hand worked between us, and I used the weight of my body to thrust even more until she was shaking beneath me. I kissed her hard, hard enough to show her I meant it, catching her bottom lip in between my teeth.

She shuddered against me but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what I wanted. I yanked on her hair with my other hand, her hand moving between us until she was gripping my wrist like she had that first time, her hips jerking against my hand as she shoved me even deeper into her.

And then suddenly she buried her face into my shoulder, her cries muffling into my skin. I held her to me, my fingers still hooked inside her, relishing the way she trembled against me, the warmth of her body on mine, the way I could make her feel.

She finally pulled back from me, that soft smirk back on her face as she traced over my jaw before leaning in to kiss me again. I pulled my hand away from her, her fingers still lingering on my wrist as I brought my hand up to my mouth.

To my surprise though, she pulled my hand back to her, my fingers brushing across her lips until they parted and she took my fingers in her mouth, running her tongue along them before I took my hand back.

“Oh,” I breathed. My limbs felt warm and heavy, and I gazed up at her. She shook her head.

“I suppose you did earn _that_ look,” she said, and I chuckled.

“Maybe I’ll be able to make you beg sometime, too,” I said quietly.

“Mm. We’ll see about that,” she said. “For now I think that's enough for one night.”

I groaned. I wanted more, wanted her touch on me again until I was begging her to stop, wanted her to teach me everything like she'd said. I wanted to pin her down and make her come apart under me, hold her until she came back together just so I could do it again.

She stood, then, and handed my nightgown and underclothes back to me. I took them from her, my face heating up.

She placed her finger under my chin and tipped it up so I was looking at her. She bent low, tantalizingly close to where I wanted her, barely a breath away from me. When she kissed me this time it was long and slow, her tongue tracing over my lips, before she pulled back.

I whimpered when she did so, and she laughed softly.

“Desperate, aren’t you, Mrs. de Winter?” she said. “What, do you want me to keep you up all night?”

I blushed. I would have liked that, and she knew it.

“Not tonight,” she said, and turned back to me. “I do have a household to run, you know.”

The reality of what she'd said, of our situation, sank in then. I wordlessly pulled on my underclothes and nightgown, readied myself to leave.

I headed towards the door, and her hand closed on my elbow, pulling me back against her.

“I didn't mean that as a complete rebuttal,” she murmured into my ear. She kissed my neck, my shoulder, and I wanted to sink into her touch.

But she was right.

“I should go, Danny,” I said, hoping my use of her nickname would soften my words. When I turned to look back at her, I didn't see any disappointment on her face, and that calmed me.

“Of course,” she said. “You can fetch your dress tomorrow; I will have it ready by then.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, and found myself smiling at her. “I didn't want to wear it tomorrow anyway.”

Understanding dawned on her face and she shook her head, a smile creeping over her face.

“Good night, Mrs. de Winter,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Mrs. Danvers,” I said, and stole out of her room, keeping to the walls like a shadow, like I was the ghost now instead of Rebecca.

Maybe that was fitting, then. I wasn’t Rebecca, but I didn’t need to be. The need to compare myself to her had faded with the knowledge that I was here and she wasn't; that I could do things she couldn't.

I could make my own way in this house, and for the first time, I felt certain that I was right.

I was Mrs. de Winter, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it: 23k of Mrs Danvers/Narrator (aka Danvich) with a sequel to follow. I love this pairing and figuring out how to write it.


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